Sunrise And The Death Of Insanity
by Christoph Andretti
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is an individual in endless inward turmoil. Now, he is stuck with other scientists in a race to find the cure for a spreading disease. As time and vengeance close in on the group, Arthur and his comrades must band together to survive in this very near-future. CO-WRITTEN BY PLANETOFTHEWEEPINGWILLOW!


"There is no hope," God said.

Arthur ignored the voice in his head. He focused on the cards spread across his hands. Hearts and spades and clubs danced in his vision. He was losing, quickly. In a moment Antonio would trump him in poker and he would have to shed his shirt.

His cream-colored coat lay on the sofa, next to a pair of red high-heels, brown pants, a hat, and a pair of glasses. No one said where you had to start stripping. Arthur grew nervous. Antonio in triumph slammed his hand down. Arthur grunted.

He pulled his shoes off and set them next to Elizaveta's heels. His stocking feet brushed against the floor. The circular table before him suddenly became very daunting. He licked his lips and looked around. Directly before him Elizaveta smiled. She was due to lose next, and all she had little left: some jewelry, her glittering inky dress, and no shame.

"There is no hope," God said again.

And, again, Arthur ignored the insane voice mumbling in his head like a rushing stream. What good would it do to succumb to his madness so soon? His team still had a long way to go before any sort of cure was found. Not that it needed to be found yet, anyway.

Elizaveta's laugh interrupted his thoughts. He looked up, grinning. He hadn't noticed his winning hand. "Well, Liz, it seems you're next." He said.

She looked at him, bemused. Her hand went along her neck, her fingers threatening to take the dress of first. Instead, they unclipped her necklace. The gems spilled into her palm and she set it aside on the table. No danger of thieves here.

"You looked so eager, Alfred," she said, batting her eyes mockingly.

Alfred frowned. He squinted, unable to see without his glasses. "I can barely see what you're doing. As far as I know you're naked."

She ran her hand through her thick brown curls. "Oh, but of course."

Alfred shrugged. He was losing fast. Arthur knew that if Alfred ended up in only his boxers his mood could only worsen.

The final member of the game, Antonio, seemed optimistic about his hand. Not that he wasn't normally upbeat, he still had plenty of clothes left to lose. "With such a tease you'd think even a blind man would sense it." He remarked.

"If I have such a womanly body, I may as well own up to it." She pointed out.

"She brings up a good point." Arthur said.

"Even the cynic cares to agree with me." Elizaveta said, slamming her cards down.

Antonio looked it over and sighed. He unbuttoned his dress shirt. A golden chain came into view on his tan chest. He did not take it off. Instead he pushed his hand into his shirt and produced his sacrifice. The gun clattered on the table. Everyone visibly stiffened. He wouldn't shoot. He just kept it for pleasantries.

Elizaveta frowned. "You can't do that. That's not clothing." She reached into her purse, a fat lump of blood red leather, and produced her own gun. She set it on the table. Arthur stared at Alfred, wondering if he had his own weapon to expose. Elizaveta did the same. "Let's get rid of weapons now, so we don't have to get into this issue later."

Alfred sat up straighter in his chair. He looked almost regal, save for his disheveled hair and plain shirt. His rectangular face was sharp and commanding. Arthur almost admired him for that. Alfred dug into his pocket. "Unlike you psychos I don't carry guns to games with friends."

"What do you, then, use in an emergency when we leave the building?" Antonio asked politely, "We aren't exactly in the safest situation. The other groups can stab our backs, put us in sacks, and throw us in dumpsters at any moment."

"I know that." Alfred was uncharacteristically annoyed. Something must have come up, a crack in his research. Arthur peered over his slightly water-damaged cards at Alfred.

Alfred dug deeper into his pocket. His shoulder rolled beneath his shirt. He produced a pocketknife and set it on the table.  
Antonio crossed his bare legs. The muscles rippled in his smooth skin. Show off, Arthur thought. All eyes swerved to him. Arthur pretended to be engrossed in the dirty microwave set on the counter just behind them. A clock ticked loudly, much louder than it should, in the cramped apartment. Somewhere a cat howled. Finally, Arthur sighed.

"You were unprepared. There really is no hope for you," God hissed.

Elizaveta's raised eyebrows indicated that she knew. Antonio's smile faltered. Alfred squinted harder. Arthur felt choked, suddenly, like all the air had begun to compress him.

"I don't have any." Arthur muttered. "I'm unprepared."

"We don't do this to look cool." Antonio said.

"Well, yes we do…" Alfred added in.

Antonio shrugged. "Maybe that's a part of it," his smile was sad, "but we do it to be safe. Arthur, you're one of the smartest people in the entire city. What would we do if you showed up gagged and maimed at our front step?"

Arthur reddened.

"You pitiful, unworthy scientist… You disappointed even your closest friends…" God said.

Arthur couldn't ignore the voice. He tried. He wanted to reach for the pocketknife and cut the voice out, letter by letter.

"I'm sorry." He said.

Elizaveta sighed loudly. She bent over her purse and dug through it again, uncovering a pen. She handed it to Arthur, the end of it pointing towards him. He took it and, angling it away from any eyes, unscrewed the cap. A fine, sharp end jutted out where the nib would have been. Arthur shut it and tucked it into his pocket.

"Thank you." He said graciously.

"You were lucky." The voice said, almost jeeringly.

Elizaveta picked her cards up again. "Don't thank me. But make sure you get a better weapon. That end won't last very long."

Arthur nodded mutely.

"There is no hope," God's words echoed.

"Shut up."

"Usually you wait until after I say something to say that."

Arthur looked up from his cards and saw an albino man sauntering into the room. He had a dark blue jacket on with an iron cross-hung by his chest.

"Did you get the Combo's?" Elizaveta asked.

Gilbert sat down on the wooden chair next to her. "No. I did not get the Combos. They're not very common around here."

"I was just asking."  
Gilbert scanned the room. He saw the variety of shorts and thin button downs strewn around the ramshackle room. "Are you playing strip poker?"

Antonio cleared his throat. "Well, you see, Al had the great idea of drinking the white sifindale in the mini fridge that Arthur snuck in."

"And that was private, too. You still owe me fifty bucks."

"American or British. Because all I have is Euros."

Arthur sighed. "Forget it."

Gilbert chuckled. "Well, I just want you all to not kill me when you wake up tomorrow from your hangovers."

Alfred pointed at Gilbert. "You know what, Kraut? I don't even think you care about the meeting tomorrow."

"What other reason would I have to be here in Tehran? It's not for the prostitutes—especially when Elizaveta practically is one."

Elizaveta raised her middle finger at Gilbert.

"Regardless, we shouldn't search for dandelions on an ant farm. So, how about we just call it a night?"

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Elizaveta asked.

"Did anyone give Artie anything to drink? You know he's allergic to alcohol."

Arthur threw his hands up. "It's liquor. And I'm not allergic to it, either."

Gilbert chuckled. "If anybody wants a nightcap coke bump with me, I'll be in my room. Lizzie, I expect you there soon."

"And like every night, I will respectfully decline your invitation." Elizaveta said. Then, she stuck her tongue out.

Gilbert rolled his eyes. With the screeching of the chair legs on the linoleum floor, he shot to his feet and walked to the lit doorway. He jogged around the foyer and stomped up the wooden steps to his bedroom.

"What's a coke bump?" Antonio asked.

"You of all people should know," Alfred said, squinting his cerulean eyes.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're Hispanic which means you do a lot of drugs."

"I haven't done any drugs here, amigo."

Elizaveta tilted her head. "Really? Because I'm sure everybody else here has."

"Guilty as charged." Arthur said in a deadpan tone.

Elizaveta stood up. "Sorry to leave you all hanging, but tomorrow is kind of important. If we can't get funding from WHO tomorrow, we're screwed. You might as well shoot us with a nail gun right then and there."

Elizaveta threw her cards down. With a huff, she combed her fingers through her brown flowing hair. She exited the room.

Arthur sighed. "I'm nervous about tomorrow."

"Don't be," Alfred said with a smile. "It's just a…Antonio, what do you call it?"

"A formality."

Arthur cleared his throat. "Yes. Well, I'll see you all tomorrow."

"Just stay cool, Artie. Watch some Iranian porn. Masturbate some. Keep the blood flowing."

"Shut up."

Arthur turned away from the group. He collected his clothing and replaced it on to his person, checking to see that the pen was tucked safely into his pocket. Of all the times to get a bad feeling, now the voice in his head began to warn him of an attack.

"Shut up." He repeated.

Alfred and Antonio exchanged a glance. Arthur shuffled out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Antonio sighed, collecting his trousers. Alfred watched him shuffle away from the dingy table, practically dragging his feet behind him.

A silence stretched between them, seemingly expanding galaxies. Alfred slid his glasses on.

"Arthur's lost it." He said slowly, as if just uncovering an important clue. He didn't mean it as a joke.

Antonio tossed him a baffled glance over his shoulder. His dark eyebrows were raised. "He lost it a while ago."

"No, I think he really is losing a few screws." Alfred said. He stood and collected the cards. Someone had to, anyway. Alfred's fingers wouldn't stop trembling for some reason.

Antonio dug something out of the small fridge. Dissatisfied with the sandwich wrapped in a paper towel, he threw it away and walked quietly behind Alfred. "If he's gone insane then all the better!" he said cheerfully, "Aren't the most intelligent people absolutely crazy? Who knows? Maybe he'll be an expedient in our discovery of a cure!"  
Always jovial, always optimistic, always happy… It could get tiring. And Alfred, the king of merriment and innocent bliss, was starting to get annoyed. He shot his coworker an ice-blue stare and tried to calm his quivering fingers.

"What was that for?" Antonio asked softly.

"You know why I did that…" Alfred said. He really hoped Antonio did. Alfred didn't understand why he felt the way he did.

"I'm only trying to lighten the mood, Alfred." Antonio said, placing a firm hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"But it's not a joke! What if something's seriously wrong with him?" Alfred snapped.

Antonio looked wounded. Alfred regretted saying that. He awkwardly apologized, his glazed eyes looking away from him and at the old cards. They smelled like old books. Alfred chewed his lips. "Sorry… Sorry…"

"It's fine." Antonio said, quickly disentangling from the inevitable emotions. He looked out the rectangular window, at the cool night air. Elizaveta was way long gone along her way. Arthur should have reached the street by now.

* * *

And Arthur did. He stood before the nearly empty street. Beggars moaned, shabby cars grunted as they rolled by, and something was seriously wrong with him. Arthur shoved his hands deep into his pockets. One of his fists clamped around the pen.

"Why do you torture yourself with this idiot team?" God whispered. "You can do this all on your own. You are plenty smarter than they are. You can get the money and, more importantly, the glory. Imagine your name, only your name, on a plaque… The cure is yours, Arthur…"

"Oh shut up." Arthur snapped out loud. He didn't care if the impoverished heard him. Anyone living in this rubbish heap of sorrow of a neighborhood had to be insane.  
A beggar raised his head and then turned away, digging deeper into the moth-eaten blankets swaddling him. Arthur frowned deeply, annoyed. Why did this voice bug him now? Couldn't it wait until he was retired? At least then it would be someone acceptable.

Arthur waited for a taxi, plastering a scowl over his face. "Shut up, damned voice, shut up…" he muttered incessantly to the voice.

"I am you." God retorted, "How can you quiet me? I will never stop thinking until you do. Besides, isn't it useful to have me around?"

"It may be useful at times, but not every waking and sleeping moment of my life." Arthur muttered. "I may as well have you pay rent for staying in my head. How's it in there? Cozy? Shall I get you some tea?"

"It's quiet. It's also dark in here…."

"Well too bad. You'll have to pay extra for electricity. Good luck getting it through my hard skull. How'd you get in, anyway?"

"I was always here… I was born here…"

"Like an egg?"

"And then you nurtured me."

"I was a fool."

"You're a bigger fool for talking to yourself out in the empty, dangerous streets."

That was not the wispy, hushed voice Arthur knew. This was a louder, meaner, and realer sound. Arthur turned, his heart pounding. He started to pull the pen out. The voice was quiet now, thankfully. Arthur's green eyes attempted to pierce the reddish darkness.

A figure stepped into the dim lamplight. Arthur relaxed slightly. William Stoutress stood before him, an enemy scientist with a grin big enough to make the crescent moon jealous. William rocked on his heels.

"You could attract muggers that way. The insane are easier to kill and rob, though they usually don't have much…" William continued. His pimple-marked face was wicked under the ethereal light. His black hair gleamed.

"You speak from experience?" Arthur asked, forcing a calm demeanor.

"No, I speak logically."

"Then what are you doing out here, stalking in the night like some lone cat?"

"You answered your own question, Doctor Kirkland. I'm stalking my prey, you. Competition is unhealthy."

Light reflected off of William's side, catching on the drawn pocketknife. Arthur felt sick. He held the pen out.

"Don't start with a metaphor," William said, looking down at the pen. "The pen's mightier than the sword and all that, I've heard it a thousand times. Try something different."

It all struck Arthur as odd. How could William be so horribly calm? No one could face danger and potential murder with suck a calm, sickly look. That is, unless he was insane, too. Arthur felt briefly at home.

"You understand me." He whispered, so not to wake the stars.

"And that is why I must kill you."

"Does the voice will you?"

Arthur was only buying more time. He could run. He could call a cab… But who would want a crazy man in their back seat? The trouble and the taxes were too much for anyone. Arthur felt as if he had been captured under a cup, like a rat. He had no option but to scratch at the glass which, in this case, was William.

"It's not a voice in my mind. It is me. It is more than me. It is ambition and woe and worry and the need to find it before anyone else. I once stabbed a kid's wrist because he told me an answer to the puzzle we were doing in class. No, I am my own man."

William lurched forwards, reaching the knife towards Arthur's throat. Blinded by adrenaline, Arthur turned to the side, shove the pen into William's stomach. The tip ripped a hole big enough so that Arthur could easily tear through. William yelped in surprise and crumpled to the ground. The beggars had fled, fearing the mad men fighting.  
Arthur bent over him. Horribly, nauseating fear and grief washed over him. How had he done this? Why? Arthur felt a sob choke his throat. William scrambled up for Arthur's throat, his fingers digging deep.

Arthur coughed, sputtering; "When did we become killers? I thought we were… scientists…" It was his final card, his final item of clothing before he lost it all. He felt his vision fade, centering briefly on William's horrible, mad leer.

"When? When weren't we?"

* * *

Gilbert was a vain individual. He would not deny that. To be fair, there was little about him that was not awesome. If he could hold a mirror in front of his face all day, he would gladly do so. It would obscure the faces of the poor and dislocated poor schmucks rummaging for food on the street, anyway./span  
His silver hair. The crimson eyes. His rocking body. At least, all of this was on his mind. Damn anyone else who didn't believe that. Who wouldn't think that Gilbert was as great as he thought?

Basically everybody he ever met.

So, it was another night of sleeplessness.

The Prussian man tossed and turned in his cool white sheets. He was exhausted, but sleep was a dream floating in another place that he could never reach. And the worst part was that he wasn't sure exactly what it was.

Actually, it was a multitude of things. For as great as he thought his appearance was, he stood out in a crowd. Sometimes, he was worried he would be alienated from others.

Then, there was the health of Arthur. On a personal level, he didn't care too much for the Englishman. However, he was on his team. It was important that they were all on the same page. Arthur seemed preoccupied, dazed by the simmering heat of Iran, and the delirium of barely having a day off in three years. He was worried the shorter man would snap from stress or anger and rain bullets on everyone.

It was not awesome how much work was put into finding a cure. It seemed almost pointless. He wanted to go home and just stay in his domesticated life in Los Angeles flirting with Elizaveta and pestering that other Austrian idiot that tried to date her a few years ago.

Elizaveta. She was the biggest concern for him.

The squeaking of the door shook him from his pointed glare at the mirror in front of him. He turned and left the room. When he rounded the corner of the lavender railing, he went down the steps careful not plunge onto the squeak spots.

He passed by the small mirror hanging on the mold green wall. The light emanating from the kitchen and dining room area was lavished with the crimson-tinged ruffles of the lampshade.

When he walked in, Arthur's back was towards him. He was hunched over his knees, his head in his hands. The blonde hair stuck up and was drenched in sweat. A few hiccups came from the shaken man. The light lit part of his back with the other half shrouded by the shadow of the stack of books on the wooden table.

"Where were you?"

Arthur turned around. His face was reddened. His eyes were bloodstruck.

Gilbert frowned. "Well?"

"I killed somebody." Arthur whispered. His eyes started to grow darker with the pool of saline ready to spill over his eyelids.

Gilbert stared at Arthur. His mouth was slightly agape. "You killed someone at poker? At a one-on-one game of basketball?"

"Idiot. I actually killed someone. I stabbed them in the chest, and he died." Arthur almost shouted. However, his few working nerves told him that there were others in the house.

Gilbert moved closer to him. As he drew nearer to the lurching figure, Arthur buried his face back in his hands. Beads of sweat clung to the tips of his spiked blonde hair. His heavy breathing collided with the cold wind bursting from the air conditioning unit buzzing through the quiet kitchen.

Gilbert stammered. "Who was it?"

Arthur looked up. "William Stoutress."

"Who?"

Arthur shook in frustration. "William Stoutress. The guy that defected to Cuba a few months ago."

"Who the hell defects to Cuba?"

Arthur stood up and shook Gilbert. "Don't you get it? I killed him. I'm a murderer."

Gilbert plucked Arthur's clammy hands off of his broad shoulders. "You're gonna give me a heart attack. Relax."

Arthur laughed mirthlessly. "You? I'm the one that's going to get struck by lightning from God any second."

Gilbert stared at him. "I thought you were Atheist."

Arthur stammered. "Wha-forget it. There's no point anymore."

Gilbert walked over to the stack of books. Looking down, he picked up a dark red one and flipped through the pages absentmindedly, as if he was taken over by another flipping them, he collected his words together. "We'll be fine. It's not like it was anyone we cared about. It could have been worse."

"I'm insane, Gilbert."

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "We figured, Arthur."

"No, I'm serious."

"I am, too. Don't say shit like that. We're fine. Now go to bed."

Arthur walked past Gilbert, his head hung down. The cloud of smoke and sweat made Gilbert grimace as Arthur trudged past him towards the stairs. AS he walked away, Gilbert turned back to the room. Looking down at the book, he closed it. His mind was scrambled. Whether it was from the time he was up or from Arthur's issues, he wasn't sure.  
It wasn't anything that couldn't be figured out in the morning, he thought.


End file.
